Friends of a Feather Read Online Free PDF

like this”—she makes her expression dreamy—“and say, ‘Ah,
oui
. Lola,
mon petit chou
! How I miss her!’”

    â€œWhat’s a
p’tee shoe
?” I ask.
    â€œA cabbage,” Winnie says. “And now, some normal names.” She picks a red Sharpie and writes “BOB” in blocky capital letters. With a green Sharpie, she writes “Al.”
    â€œAl?”
Sandra says. “Who names their kid
Al
?”
    â€œWho names their kid
Lola
?” Winnie says. Switching to a blue Sharpie, she writes “Serena.” She twists my arm over, and Pamela, Melyssa, and Jenny all sign my cast. Jenny adds “Feel better!” and throws in a smiley face.
    I admire my cast. It looks awesome.
    â€œNow listen, Ty,” Winnie says. “Nobody’s going to believe you actually broke your arm.” She holds up her finger. “But! They
might
believe you sprained your wrist or something.”
    â€œWhat’s your cover story?” Sandra asks.
    I tap my chin. The last time I wore my bandage, it was because I was a spy who’d gotten bitten by a poisonous earwig right on the ankle. Earwigs like arms just as much as ankles, I bet.
    â€œA
believable
cover story,” Winnie says.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œTy
 
.
 . .” she says.
    So no earwigs. Fine.
    Oh! But yesterday after school, I did some bird-catching in the backyard. It was because of Chase and how he captured Lester and thrust him into the air, crying, “Found him!”
    I imagined doing the same thing, only with a bird instead of a snake, and without the thrusting part, since squeezing a bird tightly isn’t a good idea. I made up a whole movie in my head of how it would go.
    First, I would cup the bird gently and hand it to Joseph.
    â€œHere,” I’d say.
    â€œWow,” he’d say. He’d look at the bird, and then he’d lift his head and look at me. His expression would be happy and there wouldn’t be any weirdness between us at all. “Wow, Ty. Thanks!”
    When I think about it now, my movie doesn’t make much sense.
    But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on catching a bird.
    Yesterday, I did all kinds of creeping and leaping and being-sneaky-ing, but all I ended up with was a scratch on my arm.
    Scratches
are
real, though. Realer than earwigs.
    I tell Sandra and Winnie that my scratch is my cover story.
    Sandra says, “Hmm.”
    Winnie says, “Yeah, because I didn’t see any scratches when I wrapped you up.”
    â€œThere is one,” I assure her. “I snuck up on this one very cute bird, and I did a flying tackle, and I landed on a stick.”
    â€œBirds are hard to catch,” Winnie admits.
    â€œSticks, on the other hand . . .” Sandra says.
    â€œAt school, make it more than a scratch,” Winnie says. She purses her lips. “Tell them you bruised your bone.”
    â€œCan you do that?” I say. “Bruise your bone?”
    â€œSure,” Winnie says. “Happens all the time.”
    Mom comes downstairs carrying Baby Maggie. “Girls? Ty?” she says. “Shouldn’t you be heading to school?” She notices my bandage. “Oh, honey, what happened?”
    Sandra, Winnie, and I answer at the same time:
    â€œGangrene,” Sandra says.
    â€œJust a flesh wound,” Winnie says.
    â€œI bruised my bone,” I say.
    Mom takes it all in. “Ah. So the bandage is just for fun.”
    â€œNo,”
I say. “You don’t need to take me to the hospital, but my bandage is
not
for fun.”
    Changing the subject seems like a better idea than trying to explain yet again, so I hop up, grab my backpack, and say, “Hey, what’s a weenis?”
    Mom, Sandra, and Winnie swivel their heads toward me. Maggie grabs a handful of Mom’s hair.
    Dad jogs down the stairs wearing his man shoes. He glances from face to face. “What’d I